Every windy Thursday the clouds become smoke and its 1922 again,
Not everyone knows this, but I see it. As the ever working bottle kilns blow out their grimy kisses, I see them chuffing like burning parapets on the horizon of my mind…
The white smoke swims away across the cold blue glaze of winter skies, and potbank workers draw dark scarves closer and clump along in clay boots
They scurry forth to beat the bell, oblivious to me observing from a future stoke.
And as I lose sight of the wispy towers, the kilns crumble to atoms as though they never fired.
My bus drives back through the rip in time and 21st century Stoke longs for the smoke and pride of so long ago.